On Expired Jam and Misplaced Experiments
by abhorrent
Summary: John's rampant exhaustion seemed to catch up to him in one penultimate moment: he abstained good health in favor of a half-decent breakfast. Turns out, "bad decisions" are called "bad decisions" for many, many reasons. As it also turns out, his breakfast wasn't even half-decent. Joy.
1. The Mishap

_I like John Watson. He's a decent fellow, and a very respectable hobbit. A little tight-laced at times, but generally a beautiful and caring man. Messing with him is delightful._

_Not brit-picked, I come from a land of life, liberty, and the pursuit of Kim Kardashian's ass. So, forgive. I'm also proof-reading all of these by my lonesome, so... (this stands for help me plox)_

___Enjoy!_

* * *

John Watson was in a quandary. He didn't know whether he was delirious with exhaustion and mad with hunger, or if he was mad with exhaustion and delirious with hunger.

Either way, he figured he was both. Parading around half of London, non-stop, on the other day's breakfast usually left an average man feeling slightly worse for wear. He swore he could feel the layers of his sweat clinging to him like infants to a breast, refusing to cascade down his body, it clung to him and cloaked him. His hair was damp, but he knew it had been a good 48 hours since his last shower. All in all, he could have woken from the dead and not felt worse.

So, he made toast.

It was all his brain registered, actually. He knew there was nothing actually edible in his refrigerator; and since he knew that, he spared himself the horror of actually _checking_. His weakened, over-worked heart would probably give if he were to subject it to another severed head or dissected stomach. There was bread, however, and that alone was enough to bring tears to John's eyes. He just needed something in his stomach; anything, really.

When his toast had finished, he haphazardly searched the cupboard for some jam. His fingers danced around the familiar bottle, that seemed to have gone into hiding on the top shelf, and almost dropped it in his haste to retrieve it. His face was Christmas when he popped open the lid and realized there was indeed jam inside.

He forced his knife inside, violating the jar with his unnecessary haste. His fingers shook with impatience. His tongue danced about his bottom lip, coating it in saliva.

This jam was slimy, he realized—well, more slimy than would be considered "appropriate." He checked the expiration date, and was faced with the fact that this particular jar had expired a week and a half ago.

Damn. Double damn.

"To hell with it," The man shrugged, spreading the jam regardless. He was too hungry, damn it, and now was not the time to be a picky eater. Logic was, as his roommate had pointed out many a time, not his forte.

That had to be the exhaustion speaking. Because when he bit into his toast, it took him a moment to realize how disgusting his mistake was. It was almost offensive in its taste, like a burp filled with grape soda and stale Cheetos, and as he swallowed he began to make some rather un-gentlemanly retching noises. The second bite of toast was due to the fact that he was starving, and wasting toast is, well, wasteful. The sounds that found its way from his throat after that second bite had Mrs. Hudson running from her apartment to his with a glass of ice water and a soothing back rub.

"Thank," he coughed, a deep, rib-shaking cough, before inhaling a desperate, "you." He gagged again, before he took a greedy sip of the proffered beverage. He drank it with fervor as his housek—landlady crooned and crowded him.

"A bit of a cold, have you, dearie?" She patted his head and took the now-empty glass of water from the man. John smiled at her, thankful for her worries.

"Oh, no," he waved her off, "I just ate some bad toast, is all." He shot her an award-winning smile. She rolled her eyes, a grin on her face.

"You boys," she reprimanded, "If I go out today, I'll stop you by some goodies. Who knows what's being consumed in here..." She began to walk out of the room, chuckling to herself about her silly tenants and their escapades and their lack of common sense.

John chuckled, rubbing his hands against his face. That sad attempt at a breakfast had managed to rob him of his hunger, which he figured was understandable. So, all that left was some-

His phone vibrated. He checked his text messages.

"_Where are you?_"

Check the date. Triple damn. Stupid, John, stupid. Really, who forgets what day it is? He cursed up a storm while he sent a harried reply, racing up to his room to change his ragged clothes. He peeled the dingy items off of him and realized with great anguish that he did not even have the time to shower.

"At least most of my patients have stuffy noses," he joked to no one in particular. Well, maybe that skull Sherlock was so fond of had heard him. Either way, the joke was lame and John Watson was now embarrassed that even a man who was long-dead had heard it. So, he left.

He had no sooner made it to work when he began feeling chilly. It was odd, because he was just sweating with all the vigor of a marathon runner, and usually it's either/or, not both in fluctuations. He scurried off into his office, his half-hearted attempt at avoiding any of his superiors working in his favor.

At least he had succeeded in something this morning. God, was it hot in here, or was it just him?

Before he could ponder that, however, his phone chimed as a flurry of text messages assaulted his screen. The screen felt brighter than it had been recently (no, it was not hurting him to read, thank you) as he read the messages.

"_John_"

"_Have you seen my latest experiment? I seem to have misplaced it. -SH"_

Why Sherlock assumed that John knew anything of his projects was a matter that went way above John's reasoning. He kept reading.

"_You might want to get home. No pressure, but the sooner the better. -SH"_

Strange. But, John mused with a fond smile, Sherlock always spewed melodramatic nonsense when he was bored. Okay, next...

"_Forget that, you're at work, you should leave. Now."_

"_Don't talk to anyone. Just come home and everything will be O.K."_

The last two, John registered with abject horror, hadn't even been signed properly.

"Don't freak out, John," he murmured to himself, hoping for all the world that his flatmate was being dramatic.

John didn't even know what was going on, for Christ's sake.

He had to be. John hadn't even touched anything in the man's "lab" (it was definitely not a lab, John would often tell him, because it was hardly sanitary enough to be considered a _meth_ lab) so it wasn't something that could be contracted via his skin. If his chest was heaving, he didn't know. He began coughing, the kind of cough that shook your body along with your soul, and he vaguely heard his phone chime—yet again—from the desk top. He scrambled to open the message.

"_Relax, John. You're not dying."_

He let out an audible sigh, his body almost collapsing in relief. He gathered his things and left post-haste, avoiding eyes that were equal parts curious and irritated toward his strange behavior. John would be blessed if he could keep this job.

Again, a chime, "_Yet._"

That message received a very audible response.

"What?"

He checked it again. Confirmed it. Brought it to his mind-court. Objected it. _Overruled_. That just happened.

He ran home.

* * *

_Splitting this into three parts. And don't worry, I'll try to make it as humorous as possible. I would've written one giant epic, but it's prudent for me as a procrastinator to publish things so I feel obligated to publish more. So, again, if you want to be my beta, hmu dawg._

_Otherwise, leave a review! Tell me what you think, or what you didn't think. Or about that one time you felt a sexual attraction towards that old lady who sits at parks and feeds the pigeons. Thanks for reading, and do stay tuned~~~~~~_


	2. The Come Up

_A recent study suggests that about 1 in 3 Americans have a venereal disease. That's a staggering amount, and all I want to say is that if you don't know whether or not it's clean, don't dry hump the peen. This is also irrelevent to anything, but it's morbidly interesting, to say the least._

* * *

John's brain was heaving with billions of trillions of possible scenarios, each more sordid and unsavory than the last, by the time he collapsed behind the doors of 221b Baker Street. His chest heaved, part of him overexerted, and the other half of him on the brink of hyperventilation. He inhaled through his nose, counting to five, before exhaling loudly. He tried to unclench his jaw as he repeated the motion, and again, before he finally found some of himself, enough to calm down.

He didn't even know what he was dealing with yet, and he was already in a state of persistent dread, exacerbated by the fact that he knew literally _anything_ could be wrong with him, considering just who he lived and associated with on a daily basis. Steeling himself, because he was an Army Captain, thank you, he marched up the stairs.

"Sherlock," he threw open the door to their flat, looking around for his flamboyant companion. Not in the living room, so John moved for the kitchen.

"Sherlock. Where are you?" He stepped into aforementioned area, and suddenly two hands shot out of nowhere and grabbed a hold of his shoulders. He might have screeched, but he was rather sure it sounded more like a battle-cry. His vision danced with shadows and half-faces, it was almost blinding.

"John!"

Watson relaxed, his gaze focusing onto just who had done the grabbing. Sherlock. But, of course it was Sherlock, always attempting to be omniscient and mysterious. Can't just acknowledge your own presence, you have to force it onto people. John shoved the hands off of his shoulders and stuck an accusing finger right below Sherlock's nose.

"What have you done! What is it? Am I going to _die, _Sherlock?"

Now it was John's turn to do the shoulder-grabbing. He shook his taller friend with frantic passion, and when he looked up into his friend's eyes, he saw amusement.

To say John had been angry before would only mean that, after John saw the _smirk_ in his friend's eyes (How do eyes even smirk?), he was now incensed, his body cloaked in fine rage.

"What is so humorous, Sherlock?" He moved his arms to cross his chest, instantly defensive and poised to strike. He was nervous, anticipating the worst, of course. It served to amuse Sherlock further.

"I made that last part up, John. I just needed to get you back to the flat. You're not dying, you've just been drugged," the nonchalance in his voice would have been amusing if he were saying this to, say, nobody.

"It's nothing serious," Sherlock began, again, "Just an experiment I'd been working on for a couple of months. I figured that, since your height and injury are two very important inhibitors, it would disparage you from the top shelf of the left cabinet. If that had been the case, you wouldn't have been able to reach the jar that I'd stuffed this specimen in when the case had started," he sighed, obviously disappointed in his deduction, "I'd also thought that, since the date had been expired, if it was found you would have abstained from even touching it. If anything, it would have been thrown out. It appears as though, yet again, you managed to somehow surprise me, John."

Sherlock was proud of him. Proud that he'd been so sick with fatigue and hunger that he'd resorted to eating week-late jam that, apparently, just so happened to not be jam and did happen to be laced with whatever drugs Sherlock had been experimenting with. John was boiling.

He clenched his left fist, unclenched it, took a shuddering breath. There's no use arguing with this man. He was crazy, and he was a crazy scientist at that.

"Cheers to me, then," he seethed through his teeth. The room was darkening along with his mood. "What, exactly, am I being drugged with, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grinned, his brain assuming that John's inquiry meant that he was curious in an academic stance. John wasn't. He was interested in a "My brain is about to implode from rage and discomfort so please distract me from causing damage to myself and others," type of way.

"An ingenious blend of 5-MeO-DiPT, which will in turn present a very heavy body high, clonazepam to calm the nerves during the onset of the methoxytryptamine, and a blend of psilocybin and dimethyl tryptamine—of which, I had to first blend with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor before I even added it into the mix—a slight annoyance, really," he smiled, proud of his little concotion, "I'd managed to turn it into a gelatinous form, which I was hoping would liquify, because it's not really that pleasant to the taste, if the state of your half-eaten toast is anything to go by," he waved toward the trash, "But, that's irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is the fact that this has not even been tested on humans before."

John shouldn't have asked.

It was then that Sherlock turned to his now-ashen flatmate, eyes awash in a childish glee."Do you understand, John, that we shall be making a scientific breakthrough, tonight? This is the kind of experiment I've been longing for: a live test subject and a plethora of psychedelics," his face was alive with joy, a rather handsome grin adorning his features. It made John sick.

"That's all bloody well for you, Sherlock," John spat, moving out of the kitchen and onto the couch. If he knew his chemistry well enough, which he didn't but would venture a guess anyway, he was going to trip balls. "I don't know how to feel about his. Is this anything like acid?"

Sherlock's smile still hadn't left his face as he graced John with a moment of contemplative thought. "Unlikely. A psilocybin high is typically much more different than one produced by lysergic acid diethylamide. But," he raised a brow, shrugging, "with the potent mixture you've ingested, my friend, we'll have to wait and see."

And experiment, John finished for him. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He needed a cuppa.

"Well," he shifted awkwardly in his chair, exasperated, "there's no use getting riled up over the inevitable. I must say, I'm quite nervous, Sherlock. I mean," he took a sharp breath, "I've never done this before."

He stood up and moved to start the kettle, when he was gently ushered back into his seat by a rather placating Sherlock. When he questioned the motive, his companion gave him a soft smile, grabbing John's now-shaking left hand and giving it a rather friendly pat.

"You need to focus on relaxing, John. Do those rotten breathing techniques you're so fond of, and I'll make you tea."

John gave an incredulous laugh. "You want me to relax. That's charming, really, considering that _I've just been drugged!_" His hand clenched, and John swore he could feel all of the veins, arteries, and capillaries contort with his muscles around his bone. He stared at his hand for a moment, dumbfounded.

"I don't _want_ you to," Sherlock drawled, padding back from the kitchen where the kettle stood to boil. He propped himself on the armrest of John's chair and patted his shoulder, "I _need_ you to, John. For your own sake. The more nervous you are, the worse your experience will be. So just relax."

John stared into his friends eyes, dumbfounded. It must be the drugs, because the intensity of his friend's gaze was enough to calm him. He nodded, astounded by the depth of his friend's eyes. How could such a twat have such stunning features?

A grin found it's way onto John's face, then; he found that no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the infectious grin that must have glued itself on his feature when his roommate had distracted him. The grin didn't bother him, though, instead he found great amusement in the fact that he was unable to control his smile.

"Sherlock," he called from his seat. His friend had run into the kitchen to finish the tea. "Sherlock, look."

Sherlock's head peeked around the corner, brow raised with imperious restrain. "Yes?"

John pointed, with no lack of dramatics, to his mouth. "I can't stop smiling."

Sherlock perked up, "Good for you, John," before the smile dropped and he disappeared behind the doorway. The phony smile that had graced Sherlock's fair features served to send John Watson into a rather hysterical round of giggles.

"You should be an actor," John piped, grinning at his friend who had reemerged with two cups of tea perched on fine china. He accepted his cup with a beaming smile, the warm liquid filling his entire being with the warmth of the world. He let out a low moan, "Delicious."

He sipped quietly for a while longer, unaware to the man who sat mere feet from him and was staring at him like a fresh corpse in the mortuary. It didn't matter to John, however, because he felt absolutely delightful. The warmth of the tea had begun to resonate through his chest. He felt it slither and slosh in his stomach, the warmth seeping into his capillaries and invading his bloodstream. He felt it from the last lash on his right eye to the fingertips on his left hand. It was warm, so delicately warm, and it wrapped him like a blanket.

His grin was less manic, more of a languid, lopsided smile than everything, and he settled into his armchair with renewed vigor.

"I feel amazing," John whispered to the air.

The air responded with a short chuckle before wrapping him in more warmth and he truly felt love for a moment. He'd never felt like this in his life. He was the air, and the chair, and this wonderful contraption that had suddenly wrapped him up tighter than any burrito he'd ever eaten.

"A blanket, John," a voice helped, tinged with amusement. He turned his gaze to the direction of the speaker, saw Sherlock, and giggled.

"I didn't have a blanket on me a moment ago," John laughed out. Sherlock shook his head in confirmation.

"Indeed, you did not."

"You put a blanket on me?"

"Excellent deduction, John."

John's laugh picked up momentum. "You arse. I'm feeling light, Sherlock. And I like it."

"This is the come-up, John. Bask in it."

John didn't care to think about how Sherlock knew these things. Because he couldn't care to think of anything aside from the word, "Whoa," as the world began to shift, his perspectives on things began to distort, and reality fused together in a symphony of noises and emotions and stimulating sights. Everything became new.

And then Sherlock played the violin. John's world almost exploded. He was splendid, indeed.

* * *

_Agh, I wanted to write more, but I'm afraid I need to cut myself off! I'm being whisked away. Anyways, stay tuned! The next chapter will have a lot of drug-induced conversations and insight. I hope you all enjoyed this. I hope my characterization wasn't too horrible, and I apologize if this is going too slowly. I didn't edit this, either. I still need a beta!_

_All drug!feels were felt by me at some point. The feelings, the vibrancy, all of that. And I don't know if you can mix the aformentioned drugs, but for the sake of artistic license, I'm saying we can. I'm no chemist, but you can read erowid for more info._

_Drugs mentioned: Shrooms, DMT, Clonazepam (Clonapin, an anti-anxiety med), and 5-MeO-DiPT, to which I can only describe from a secondhand source, a man who documented his experience on erowid:_

"_Time: 10 PM start_

_Within 20 minutes I feel a certain Ketemine like feeling, very dreamish. I feel incredibly light and fluid (and I weigh 280 lbs.!) I dance around my bedroom like a pixie, listening to Terence Mckenna spout __mushroom truth and dmt prophesies. After much body movement, I feel the imp of masturbation creeping up upon me. Sneaky little bastard. Always underhanded :) Needless to say the enhancement of said activities was exilerating, uplifting and consuming. A Human twicting Machine. 5Meo-Dipt-ah-dee-doo-dah!_

_(T 1:30)_

_Thus far into the ordeal, I've been having a pleasant yet laid back experience. Between yawns, I remeber having taken 2 mg clonazepam earlier in the eveing. This could account for the dreamy aspect of the trip so far. Just lying, snuggled up in my bed covers, feeling every inch of skin glow against the fabric, is fantastic. Very sensual, almost like a massage for the etheric body. All the while, I am trying to tune my mind to the theta frequency, listening to theta frequencies imbedded into various classical music. This part stretches out into daydreaming with intermittent bouts of self doubt etc. This is the point where I am always found grasping at the intellectual need to accept these doubts and dreams as parts of a whole, namingly me. Yet where the intelect knows best, the emotions waltz away to their own strange dance. Aloneness is where I am entering. A gap between personality and true being...ugh._

_So many knots to tie and not to tie and all the while trying not to become toungue tied."_

_Leave a review, chapter three will be up soon! And it will be longer, I promise~_


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